Guess it’s a good thing I work in a crap-paying industry, or I’d REALLY be pissed about the money I’m getting screwed out of.

So lately I’ve been trying to determine which presidential candidate was responsible for the whole “I want to be able to have a beer with the common man” shtick. Was it Shrub? Clinton? As far back as Reagan (for me, anyway; I was only 10 when he took over)? Further than that? Whoever it was, he deserves a swift punch in the throat. If I wanted my leader to be so accessible that he or she would join me at G-Town for a couple beers, I’d run as a write-in, ferchrissake. I mean, I don’t know about y’all, but there isn’t one person with whom I have drunk beer in the last 20 years that I would want running this country, so how did that even become a consideration?

(And yes, I DID read the Salon-Paglia opus on Palin. To that I say unequivocally: Any woman who posits that rape is a biological male imperative does not and WILL NOT represent me EVER.)

Aaaaaaand ... let’s stop talking about this.

Instead, let’s talk about why I’m wide awake: For the first time in I don’t know how long, Poppy and I took the Peapod for a bike ride this evening. I KNOW, but it’s not like the 80-some collective pounds we gots to lose prior to our 20th in October ain’t gonna melt off by themselves. (Heh) Yep, Pop has agreed to go. She’s much more zen about it than I am—I’ve been going back and forth between, “Yeah, whatever,” and “Wow, do you think maybe they’ll think I’m cool now? Do you? Do you?” much to Poppy’s delight since she’s been making fun of me about it ever since I turned in my check. I’m annoyed, though, that the ensemble I planned to wear has already been seen by another classmate, but how was I supposed to know a former classmate was going to show up at the Bang-Bang grand opening, which was super-fantastic as only Ann and Ben can make it? I suppose it didn’t help that, upon walking in and seeing her chatting with Ben, I had to go up and hug him, as if she gives a shit that he and I are tight. Probably could’ve gotten around it unseen. Crap.

It is the job of a good person to be honest. To be self-aware. To deliberately explore the fault lines of your character and try desperately to not inflict suffering in this strange, ghost-ridden world of worked and fabricated objects. Sometimes the jobs of writer and good person coincide. But more often they don’t. There are way more writers in the world than there are good people.

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Broad said:
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Caterina said:
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